


Ave, frater

by 0positiv



Category: Highlander: The Series, Queen of Swords
Genre: Fandom Fusion, and really Helm and Montoya are just Methos and Kronos, because Pelka and Wingfield have that crazy chemistry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-22
Updated: 2016-10-22
Packaged: 2018-08-23 22:55:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8346007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0positiv/pseuds/0positiv
Summary: It's so very obvious and has been done already, of course, but I really felt like writing a little Highlander/Queen of Swords fusion fic :)





	

**Author's Note:**

>  

“Imbeciles, the lot of them!”

Polished military boots beating out an angry rhythm on the wooden floor Coronel Montoya paced Doctor Helm's cluttered bedroom.

“A whole garrison of soldiers made to look like stupid children by one mortal woman! Do you see what I have to put up with?”

Reclining back further in his chair Methos watched his brother wave his hand in the general direction of his apparently useless soldiers with a flourish that was very much Luis Ramirez Montoya and not at all Kronos. It made him feel slightly dizzy, this shifting between the warlord he had known and the soldier his brother was pretending to be.

He sometimes had the curious feeling that he'd just need to blink and Kronos would be wearing leather armour instead of those peacock-like uniforms, which really were completely unlike him. Often the California heat even felt like the deserts they used to call home and on some mornings Methos half expected to wake in a tent instead of a house. _Talk about deja-vu..._

“Well? Nothing? I would have expected you to at least mock me.”

Methos couldn't help but grin as Kronos came to stand in front of him, staring down at him with his hands on his hips.

“One might say it serves you right, brother. You would just need to be less of a petty despot and she'd have nothing to fight against. But if you keep on being cruel and corrupt and greedy you'll just give her all the more reason to strike out at you.”

Methos shrugged.

“I shall not lose against a woman! I will find her, sooner or later, and then she will be sorry indeed that she ever dared to cross swords with me.”

That was more the Kronos Methos remembered, he even sounded more like himself again.

Did any of them ever really change after their first death, he wondered idly. Had he himself ever changed, _really_ changed? It felt more like with each new persona he took on he just accentuated different sides of his personality. He was still, and will always be, a warrior, a scholar, a healer, a killer, a lover and a brother. And Kronos would always be Kronos, he feared. He might hide his scar and put on fancy clothes and pretend to be someone else but he will always be the headman of a murdered tribe, the one who can never allow himself to show any weakness, who always has to be in control, and who is much too fond of death and suffering.

And Methos was under no illusion that Kronos did not still hold a grudge against him about a certain affair involving a well. Actually he had been surprised that his brother had not challenged him the moment he'd arrived in Santa Helena.

Methos – or Doctor Robert Helm as he was currently calling himself – of course hadn't known whom he'd meet in this backwater pueblo in the colonies. He had merely heard that they were looking for a doctor who spoke Spanish and, needing a place to lay low for a bit and forget about the war, he had decided to offer his services.

Imagine his surprise when he'd not only felt another immortal here but when it had turned out to be the one immortal he'd rather not have run into for at least another millennium or ten.

But Kronos had played his role perfectly for the rest of the day and only in the evening, once Methos had move into his new rooms and was just sitting down to eat a meagre dinner, decided to corner his wayward brother.

Sensing his arrival Methos had looked up at his front door uncertainly then let his eyes flicker to his bedroom where he had hidden a pistol and a big dagger. Travelling with a sword was just too conspicuous, especially when one was pretending to be a doctor who would never hurt a fly.

The feeling of cold and very sharp steel against his neck made Methos freeze and he realised that he'd made a mistake in expecting Kronos to actually knock or at least enter his house through the front door, like a civilized person. It seemed his brother had let himself in through either a window or the back door.

“Greetings, brother. Give me one good reason why I should not take your head here and now.”

Swallowing and trying unsuccessfully to lean away from the blade Methos replied: “Because then you'll have to find a new doctor?”

When that got neither a reply nor made Kronos remove his sword Methos continued: “Because you'd miss me? Because I'm in general more useful alive?”

The cold steel remained a moment longer against the skin of his neck, the pressure increasing very slightly and Methos felt a few droplets of blood running down to stain his shirt collar.

Finally Kronos removed the sword and sheathed it then walked around the table to sit down opposite Methos. 

“Lucky for you, my old friend, that is actually true. You have always been more useful alive.”

They had struck an uneasy truce that night, deciding to let bygones be bygones for now so that they could coexist in Santa Helena without having to fear the other might come for their head. And it had worked surprisingly well, over all.

They of course both played their respective roles in public, trading snide remarks and challenging each others' authority, but more often than not they would find a little time to speak companionable in private, and usually in languages none outside the room would understand.

With the slow but apparently inevitabel return to something like the easy camaradery they had shared in the days when Methos had still enjoyed being one of the Horsemen he realised that a small part of him had missed Kronos, too.

It hadn't all been bloodshed and distruction, after all, even though that was the part that had ultimately driven him away. It had also been evenings telling tall tales around a fire, playing silly games, getting drunk on terrible beer and worse wine.

It had been stupid dares – Methos would never forget that one time when they got Caspian to kiss a camel – and beautiful women and sometimes boys waiting on them hand and foot.

It had been fun while it lasted. 

And now, maybe, it could also be sharing Montoya's expensive wine and making fun of Kronos for having found an incongruous love for roses and comisserating about the Queen of Swords, albeit for different reasons.

It wouldn't last this time either, Methos had no illusions about that. For all that he and Kronos were like two sides of the same coin they had also always rubbed each other the wrong way on some things. They might not have been born of the same mother or grown up in the same family but they could quarrel like any blood related siblings. Only now and then their quarrels tended to escalate a bit and involved the occasional stabbing and poisoning.

But for now Methos pushed that thought aside. Kronos was pacing again and mumbling to himself about this or that plan to entrap their masked vigilante. 

“Stop wearing a hole in my floor, _Colonel_ , and sit down.”

Methos got up and pushed his chair towards Kronos while seating himself on the edge of the bed.

Kronos looked at him slightly affronted at first then lowered himself onto the chair with a sigh.

“Better, now why don't you stop grumbling about things you can't change and open that bottle of brandy you brought with you? I might even have some clean glasses here somewhere...”

 

 

 


End file.
